


Therapy

by castielsass



Series: Therapy [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Bad Parenting, LGBT counselling, M/M, Teen Will, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:15:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1689653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielsass/pseuds/castielsass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series based on teenaged Will in therapy with Hannibal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Therapy

Will Graham’s father smelled harshly of boat oil, fish with a heady undercurrent of wet wool. Hannibal did not allow his nose to twitch, but it was a fight. He stood like a dog, authoritative over its young but dubious in surety of authority around Hannibal. Hannibal moved forward swiftly, offering his hand to the father, and introductions were exchanged before Hannibal caught a glimpse of the son.   
  
He looked younger than Graham had said, but he could have been a small child. Hannibal took a step forward and the boy automatically countered by stepping back, briefly colliding with the chairs in the waiting room. He relieved himself from the tangle of chair legs and gave a quick, ‘sorry’ to the room at large.  
  
  
“Alright,” Graham said. He reached forward roughly and wrapped calloused fingers around the boy’s wrist, yanking him forward with distaste. Hannibal offered his hand to the boy, and he briefly looked over his face to see if he was joking before placing his small hand in Hannibal’s and shaking quickly. His hands were much softer and weaker than his father’s, presumably Will was kept more in school than on the docks that permeated Mr Graham, from his scent to the khaki fisherman’s hat he hadn’t removed.  
  
  
“Alright, get in, I’ll pick you up in an hour,” Graham said, and the words ran together like ‘pick yup ina our’.  
  
  
Hannibal opened the door for the boy, and he muttered a quick, but polite ‘thanks’ as he let himself in.  
  
  
“Please, have a seat,” Hannibal said, gesturing at the chair at the opposite side of the room. He unbuttoned his coat in preparation to sit. “William, isn’t it?”  
  
  
“I prefer Will. You’re not gonna make me lie down?” The boy asked, nodding toward the chaise lounge.  
  
  
“You can if you wish, but I usually prefer to speak face to face,” Hannibal said and didn’t sit, testing. The boy moved quickly to the chair Hannibal had indicated and sank into it, holding either armrest like he was afraid it would take off with him. Hannibal sat. The boy wasn’t as young as he had looked out in the waiting room, hidden behind the wide leg trousers of his father, shrunken in anxiety. He was quite tall, and on the thin side.  
  
  
“How old are you, William?” Hannibal asked, purposefully leaving the name long to see the reaction.  
  
  
“Seventeen,” Will said finally, and left it at that. Hannibal smiled.  
  
  
“Why has your father seen fit to send you to therapy, for what seems to be the first time in your history?” Hannibal asked, although Will’s father had given him a brief summary. A squirm worked through Will’s body like he was trying to right himself on uneven ground.  
  
  
“I don’t know,” he said after a pause. “Just ‘cause, I guess.”  
  
  
“Just ‘cause,” Hannibal repeated, voice soft. Will pulled his hands into his lap and his knees twitched, like he wanted to rise, obviously unhappy with Hannibal’s repetition.  
  
  
“I think he thinks I’m a little depressed. Maybe,” Will allowed after the ticking of the clock grew loud.  
  
  
“Was there a certain incident that made him think this?” Hannibal pushed, just a little, rounding out the edges and needling at them.  
  
  
“Maybe not depressed,” Will said. He lifted a hand and pressed it to his cheek. “Are these all books? Your library is cool.”  
  
  
“Some books, some journals, some collections,” Hannibal said. “You may look around if you wish.”  
  
  
Will bolted from the chair like he had been waiting for the word and headed directly for the ladder in the corner of the room, pausing with one hand on a rung before asking “Do you mind?”  
  
  
Hannibal nodded his assent and Will scurried up the ladder, coming close to the books shelved and running his finger over the spine of one particularly large leather bound tome.  
  
  
“Are you interested in books, Will?” Hannibal asked. He stood in the centre of the floor, allowing his hands to rest at his stomach as he watched Will. The boy shrugged like he wasn’t sure, before answering.  
  
  
“Yes, in a...pedestrian way, I guess. I don’t know a lot about literature, as a whole. I just like reading,” Will said, self-deprecatingly and moved to another wall of shelves where he knelt to read the spines of the lower shelf. Hannibal’s curiosity peaked and he found himself stepping forward slightly.   
  
The boy seemed to have adopted a more professional, courteous way of speaking while in conversation with Hannibal. He wondered if it was conscious.  
“You were telling me why your father saw fit to send you here,” Hannibal broached. “I’m aware you aren’t here willingly.”  
  
  
Will shrugged, a minuscule gesture, a motion hinting at a world of behaviour under wraps, wilfully small gestures to draw attention as little as possible.  
  
  
“I guess he thinks that I’m a little weird. There’s a problem and he’s not sure how to deal with it, or if he wants to. So I go to a therapist,” Will said, bitterness colouring his voice unattractively.  
  
  
“Is the problem that they think you’re ‘weird’?” Hannibal asked. He steadied the ladder as Will climbed down it.  
  
  
“No, more a side-effect,” Will said. Hannibal offered him a hand off the ladder and he took it automatically although it instilled a red blush across his cheeks and down his neck as he landed harshly on the floor.  
  
  
“Would you like to tell me what the problem itself is?” Hannibal asked.  
  
  
“Do I have to?”  
  
  
“No, Will. This is your time. We can speak about whatever you’d like,” Hannibal lay the trap.  
  
  
Will trailed away, examining a small black onyx sculpture on a pedestal by the desk. He seemed to consider it, his fingers resting on the edge of the pedestal. Hannibal moved back, allowing him room and unbuttoning his jacket to sit.  
  
  
“I guess he’s not sure what to think ‘cause he’s not…I guess I was going steady with someone. A guy and I guess. My dad just didn’t know what to think, I guess,” Will said quickly, like the words would evaporate as soon as he said them and cease to pound in his head.  
  
  
“Your father has sent you to therapy because you have a boyfriend?” Hannibal asked. He allowed a faint hint of disbelief to colour his tone and endear him to Will.  
  
  
“He might not have reacted so badly if he found out a better way,” Will allowed. Hannibal didn’t push, and Will didn’t reply, instead crossing over to Hannibal and sinking into the soft chair. His fingers reached up to toy with the soft plump of fabric around the arm rest.  
  
  
“He was in town, and someone said it to him. One of the neighbours,” Will said after a pause. Venom came into his voice. “Nosy old bitch. Just said it, right to his face like it was any of her business or his, or anyone’s ‘cept me and Matthew’s,” Will said roughly. “An’ he came home and I was there. With Matty. And that didn’t help, I guess. ‘Cause maybe before he could have pretended she was mistaken, but then….Not anymore.”  
  
  
“I’m only asking this in relation to your physical health, Will. Have you had sex with him, or anyone?” Hannibal lied. It was unnecessary, but he was sure if needed, the question could be explained away.  
  
  
If Will had blushed when Hannibal helped him off the ladder, it was nothing compared to the burning red that flushed his face, neck, the small triangle of visible chest, even the tips of his ears.  
  
  
“No,” he said, and it was scraped out with a hint of a stutter. “Uh,” he considered, like he was mentally tallying up everything he’d done with that boy and wondering if it counted. “No,” he said again.  
  
  
“Alright. If you do, I’d naturally advise a condom to prevent potential infections,” he said, just to see the burn of embarrassment in Will’s shiny eyes.  
  
  
“I know,” Will said roughly and he looked around the room as if he were casting out for any potential line of conversation other than this.  
  
  
“Do you have anxiety, Will?” Hannibal asked. Will’s fingers came back to a square outline in his sweatshirt pocket, as if in response.  
  
  
“I think anxiety has me,” he said with a humourless laugh caught in his throat.  
  
  
“What is that?” Hannibal asked, indicating at the outline Will was playing with. He pulled it out, as if reluctant.  
  
  
“My mp3 player,” he said, and Hannibal could almost smell the shame off of him as he revealed the pitiful thing, bent, twisted earphones wrapped around a dull, cracked and dented mp3 player. Hannibal stood and held his hand out for it.  
  
  
“May I?”  
  
  
“May you what?” Will asked, but he gave it, although his fingers were endearingly light on the case as if it alone held the key to the universe and he wasn’t sure about giving it away. Hannibal treated it as such, unwinding the earphones delicately. He gestured to Will, and he followed him to a small desk by the fireplace where a stereo sat, glinting black and expensive in the shaky light. He connected the half-broken player to the stereo and handed it to Will.  
  
  
“Choose a song, if you would,” Hannibal said and Will stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language, although his thumb clicked through titles automatically.  
“What kind of a song?” Will asked. Hannibal gave him a small smile and Will’s shoulders dropped slightly. Hannibal leaned forward in a charmingly confidential manner and said quietly “any song you’d like to hear right now.”  
  
  
Will took a moment before he pressed decisively on the select button and a firm drum beat began, bold and almost embarrassingly contrasted with the way Will’s palms sweated and shook from anxiety. After the bass line and guitar fell into place along the firm beat, Hannibal smiled.  
  
  
“Fall Out Boy?” he said.  
Will’s face burned red again, like he thought Hannibal was mocking him. “I like them,” he said.  
  
  
“As do I,” Hannibal said brusquely, although it wasn’t true. He didn’t dislike them. But there was something endearing about the strong beat, and firmly unsure lyrics that went nicely with Will, like a cheap wine whose acidity paired unusually well with an expensive cut.  
  
  
“Do you feel more at ease with your own music playing, Will?” Hannibal asked, although this hadn’t been his intention at all. Will squirmed as if he was horrendously aware of his taste in music, waiting with anxiety for a curseword, something obscene to shatter the expensive, classy comfort of Hannibal’s office.  
  
  
“Yeah,” he lied, and badly. Hannibal smiled.  
  
  
“Excellent. Why don’t we have a seat and we can talk,” he said, and lead them back to the chairs.  
  
  
Will sat and the song ended, something with a darker, heavier beat struck up and demanded their attention. Hannibal paused for a moment, until faint voices entered the stream and he was able to ignore it.  
  
  
“Why don’t you describe your feelings about having a boyfriend to me, Will?” Hannibal asked. Will’s feet turned in to each other when he sat, his toes almost touching.  
  
  
“I don’t know. It’s not about having a boyfriend. This is confidential, right?” Will asked, with a furrow in his brow.  
“Of course,” Hannibal soothed. “If you’d rather speak of something else, we can.”  
  
  
“No,” Will said decisively. “That’s why I’m here, no point in beating around the bush. I feel...anxious. When. It’s like when he’s not here, I feel worse, guilty, anxious, worried. Afraid people will find out. But when he is, it’s not so bad. It’s not so...alienating. ‘Cause he’s like me, and he likes me,” Will said. His eyes drifted to the floor for a moment as if the words he needed were entwined in the pile of the rug at his feet.  
  
  
“It’s like I’m suffocating, or drowning,” he said after a while. “Like I’m drowning in the darkness and I have no idea how to swim and my dad doesn’t know how to help, so he doesn’t even try, he just stands there. And. Watches me go. And sometimes he thinks he helps, but he doesn’t; all he does is dump more water on me and think I should be grateful for it. He brings up sometimes that he couldn’t thrown me out, a lot of parents would but he didn’t so he’s so great, y’know. And I’m supposed to be grateful for this. I am dying out here and I am on my own almost completely, and he wants me to swim back to shore, not to get up on dry land but to thank him for throwing me in.”  
  
  
“Your father didn’t make you gay, Will,” Hannibal reminded him gently.  
  
  
“I’m not gay. I dunno what I am,” Will said. “And I know. But he didn’t ever teach me what I was supposed to do if I turned out like this, either.”  
  
  
“There is sometimes some comfort in finding a label that fits one. It can be comforting to discover others who are like us, and find identity in community,” Hannibal said. He wrote carefully, fluidly on a page of his notebook.  
  
“There are some websites and books I’d like you to take a look at if possible, before our next session.” He handed the page to Will after folding it neatly. Will buried it in his pocket as if it embarrassed him.  
  
  
“I understand the resentment you have toward your father, truly,” Hannibal said. He crossed his legs at the knee, resting his hands on them gently.  
“But?” Will prompted, after a pause. Hannibal smiled gently.  
  
  
“But nothing. I understand,” Hannibal said conspiratorially.  
  
  
Will smiled at that, and he still reeked of embarrassment, but his cheeks dimpled nicely as he smirked at the floor. Another song started up, soft with a heavier bass beat and Will’s nose twitched hard as he stood and quickly turned to the desk to change the song.  
  
  
  
  
Hannibal raised an eyebrow. Will smiled at him again and turned the player off, wrapping the earphones back around it like a blanket and sliding it into his pocket.  
  
  
“What was the name of that song?” Hannibal inquired and Will froze, bound by code of politeness and torn by embarrassment.  
  
  
“I don’t remember,” he said and Hannibal softened his face slightly, like he understood.  
“I see,” he said quietly and stood. Will took the bait after a moment of squirming in embarrassment.  
  
  
“It was, uh, I think it was Gimme. By, uh. She Keeps Bees,” he said quickly, offered it like it was a prize. Hannibal smiled.  
  
  
“It seems our time is up,” he said, and he walked Will to the door.  
  
  
“Same time next week then, and please do make sure to look at the resources I’ve given you,” Hannibal said before he opened the door. Will’s father stood in the waiting room, looking out of place and dusty.  
  
  
“Goodbye Will,” Hannibal said, and he waited for the soft “bye Doctor Lecter,” before he closed the door.


End file.
